


Shall we see each other again?

by Rozzlynn



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Death, F/M, Gen, Original Statement, Statement Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 01:52:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21245552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rozzlynn/pseuds/Rozzlynn
Summary: Statement of Emmeline Taylor regarding her career as an artist and her hopes for the future. Original statement given May 16th, 2009. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.





	Shall we see each other again?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Louffox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Louffox/gifts).

ARCHIVIST: 

Statement of Emmeline Taylor regarding her career as an artist and her hopes for the future. Original statement given May 16th, 2009. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, The Archivist. Statement begins.  


ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT):

Do you know, Gertrude, this is the most comfortable I've ever felt while alone in an empty room? I can't stand to be alone. I'd have visited while you were in, but caution seemed to be the order of the day. I know you'll read this soon enough. In the meantime, well... I'm not alone in here. Not really.

Should I start at the beginning? I expect it comes as no surprise to you that I've always craved the attention of those around me. Amateur theatre, rock choir, photography, life modeling... I've thrown myself into the arts at every opportunity, especially since moving to London to attend the UAL. From a certain perspective, painting and sculpture could be seen as relatively indirect methods of holding an audience's attention. But honestly, I find there's something sublime about the process of shaping my own vision, and through the results, earning the scrutiny of others in turn. Watching my guests engage with my exhibitions, answering their questions about the creative process, and studying their reactions as they study my life's work... For me, at least, fine art has always been the most tangible route to feeling seen and known.

I met Tom while I was modelling for another class. We were together for almost a year before his attention began to stray. We always used to spend Thursday and Saturday nights together, making the most of the days our schedules lined up. When I started to worry that he was getting bored, I tried to shake up the routine. I bought us tickets to the London Eye for the following Sunday, and turned up in the most dazzling outfit I could put together at short notice. He acted impressed, but I could tell that his mind was elsewhere. Once we were up in the air, he was clearly more interested in studying the view through the windows than in maintaining his side of a conversation.

I couldn't fault the view, of course. The heart of London reflected in the Thames, the dizzying skyline, the endless crowds... I'd picked my favourite spot in all the world for the date, hoping it would inspire a shared sense of awe. I turned my own attention to the splendour laid out below us, and found myself wishing I knew the life story of everyone who passed by. Wishing I could make them look up.

As we rose to the highest point, I turned to watch the shadow that the Eye cast across the water. In that moment, I felt seen. I felt known. You know what I mean, don't you? As I watched the world below, our most attentive observer joined me in the purest moment of communion I have ever known.

When I turned back to Tom, I _ knew _ he was cheating on me. I wouldn't have minded, really, except that he was also planning to leave me. He'd gotten tired of my theatrics, and he was going to tell me so after the date, as soon as we were alone.

I nudged his elbow, and told him that I had a surprise for him. When he asked what sort of surprise, I assured him that he'd find out soon enough.

He accompanied me back to my apartment. I locked the door, and told him that I knew about Claudia. He wanted to know how I knew. I made up a convenient lie, and told him that she and I had a friend in common. I almost told him about my Tuesdays and Fridays with Michael, but somehow it didn't seem like the kind of information that would induce him to stay. So instead, I asked whether the breakup could wait until morning, and poured him a glass of wine.

Needless to say, he decided to indulge. When he fell asleep, I busied myself with the plans I was drawing together for my next exhibition. Most of my works in progress were at the studio, but my apartment was littered with its fair share of sketchbooks and canvases.

I decided to work on a set of sculptures next. Famous figures. Historical heroes. Representations of those who'd captured the popular imagination, poised to watch over their audience.

In the end, I decided that if I wanted to keep Tom's attention, I needn't use much of him. Only his eyes.

Michael went the same way, soon enough. I tried to keep hold of a few friends that way, too, but one of them slipped away. Fortunately, she wasn't injured, and the police couldn't see anything out of the ordinary about my sculptures. They didn't know how to look beyond the surface.

She must have turned to you, when all else failed.

Our master chose to wake me _ after _ the fire had claimed the stairs, and _ before _it had reached the bed. In that moment, I believed myself as good as dead. That's why I crawled to the window, and jumped from the third floor. I didn't want to die alone. Better my last breaths be observed by whoever else was in the vicinity. My own terror only heightened the call to worship. I intended to make an offering of an audience's fear as they witnessed my fate.

The paramedics credited themselves with reviving me. I suppose that may be true, in part. They feared for me. I could feel it in their stares.

Don't worry, they're still alive. For now.

You didn't think you could keep your involvement a secret from a fellow acolyte, did you? Our master doesn't require us to fight. Consider this an olive branch. I'll find other ways to serve, so long as we can reach an agreement.

I wish I'd visited this place sooner. The air is heavy with rapturous anticipation. I know I'm not alone, no matter what your receptionist said about 'giving me some privacy' when she handed me this pen.

I haven't told you everything, of course. Holding back wasn't easy, but I've done my best to whet your appetite. If you'd like to take a direct statement, I'd be happy to meet up at your earliest convenience. We could ride the London Eye, you and I.

Did you know I tracked down Lucia Wright? She's nearing the end of her tether.

Well, you have my phone number. I hope I'll see you soon. I'm keen to look upon my works again, if only in my dreams.  


ARCHIVIST:

Statement ends.

I, uh, haven't been able to find any records of Emmeline Taylor past the date on which she gave this statement. That doesn't mean much, of course, in this place... Perhaps she came to an arrangement with Gertrude. Perhaps not. I suppose I'll find out, if I ever need to know.


End file.
